Doorbells made us forget the hows
of knocking: we wrap it so tight
in our fists that no sound can escape
and maybe we are afraid of noise,
as though it is a trace of the neon
sounds inside that we keep closed.

Would knocking be like Jazz, smooth
against the doorframe and rippling
along the walls of the house? (If
we had not unlearned the buzzing of life.)
We can no longer be neighbors.
The quiet polite shuffles about our backyard
fences and we can no longer see our children,
playing with their sticky hands—
who knock only to leave prints behind.

We sit silent as teapots.
It would be enough to set fire to our doors.
Yell through our houses. Enter unasked.
Ourselves like so many angry stars.

08/18/2007

Posted on 08/18/2007
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